


Aronnax In The Abyss

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Cardassian Anatomy, Cardassians, Cultural Differences, Kardasi, Kissing, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Maquis, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Plot, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, Universal Translator, cardassian language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-16 03:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13627830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: A Vulcan captain and her husband, a long-exiled Cardassian, touch on Deep Space Nine after their vessel is nearly destroyed by an explosion - a suspected piece of tampering by the Maquis. Julian becomes embroiled in the ensuing intrigue - alongside him, so does Garak. Julian can't decide which interests him more.Set late in S3, after the events of The Wire, but before the war begins in earnest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cardassian Language Tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/358731) by tinsnip and Vyc. 



> This is a rewrite of the fic of the same name, [Aronnax In The Abyss](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10642569). I made several changes to some of the character charging and dynamics, and felt it better to put up an edited version of the fic rather than just adding new chapters and going through the whole thing again later.
> 
> Want to join a Discord for DS9 fans? [There's one here.](https://discord.gg/KSTTB3P)

“There’s a Vulcan trading vessel incoming, Doctor Bashir, and they’ve been hit hard. Part of their hull plating blew apart – electrical burns and air deprivation are the main problems. Estimated thirty injured with moderate to serious injuries, ETA twelve minutes.” Kira’s tone is clipped and sharp, and Julian nods even though she can’t see him.

“Got you,” Julian replies to Kira over the comm link, and when the line goes quiet, he snaps into action. Ordering the other doctors to ready beds and get into place, he moves swiftly down the length of the medical wing, putting things into place – thirty people is a lot for a sudden intake, but he’s ready.

Or, at least, he thinks he is.

It actually takes less than twelve minutes for them to start arriving into the medical bay – members of security beam those injured directly into the infirmary, and Julian barely takes notice of anything around him.

When he’s thrust into situations like this, everything around him dims to darkness. Julian sees nothing, hears nothing, _feels_ nothing except his medical duties: he takes pulses, asks short, pointed questions and does diagnostic tests, and as best as he can, he does what he’s been trained for – he heals. This is what he has trained for since he was a child, nursing Kukulaka and tenderly stitching up his wounds – this, Julian honestly believes, is what he was born to do. _Or at least_ , a rather bitter voice at the back of his head says in an undertone, _what I was genetically resequenced to do_.

“Who’s this?” he asks crisply of the last patient to be brought into the room; a broad-shouldered man lays her on a bed. She’s a Vulcan woman perhaps some way into her fifties, and there’s a deep laceration across side of her scalp, baring thick, green ooze that has soaked into her dark hair. He runs his tricorder over her, frowning deeply – as a nurse draws a dermal regenerator over the cut, he takes in evidence of something a little more severe.

Most of the injuries had been easily healed – the crew is primarily Vulcan, with only a Caitian and an Orion creating any extra diversity in the medical practices, and Vulcans are an especially hardy race who aren’t injured too easily. With dense muscle, excellent posture and thicker bones than other species of similar build, they tend to resist a lot of the damage that would easily kill a Human or a Bajoran, but unfortunately, this woman had been crushed by something, and Julian reads evidence of a rather severe spinal injury. He knows, grimly, that the injury was undoubtedly exacerbated by the way in which she was carried aboard, but there had hardly been time for a stretcher.

“This is Captain T’ran, of the merchant ship Aronnax.” Julian glances up from the tricorder, setting his jaw, and he freezes. Immediately, the dozens of streams of thought running side by side through his genetically-improved mind screech to a halt, and his eyes widen slightly. The man speaking – the man who’d carried the Vulcan commander into the medical bay – is a Cardassian. He has a heavy, black bruise blooming on the side of his chin, and his leftside brow ridge is cut to the bone, bleeding purple-blue down his face. It shouldn’t stop him as it does, but Julian often feels uncertain about Cardassians when he _expects_ them to be in the room with him, let alone when he’s suddenly thrust into a situation with them. Shifting his neck, Julian does his best to bring himself back to his “groove”.

“Right. You should sit down,” Julian says. It is his _medical_ voice, crisp and not to be disobeyed, but the Cardassian doesn’t move, staring stonily at Julian. A heavy drop of blood drops from his cheek onto the fabric of his tunic. The haze of medical focus has been popped like a balloon, and although his concentration isn’t entirely broken, he is… Distracted. Why would a Cardassian have been on a Vulcan merchant vessel? “Look— The captain has serious injuries. These can’t be easily fixed with a dermal regenerator. You need to be looked at yourself – Doctor N’daya—“

“I will remain here, Doctor. Our ship’s databanks were partially destroyed, and you’ll have need of her medical history.” the Cardassian says lowly, and he settles slowly into the chair beside the bed. Straight-backed, he doesn’t look as if he could be moved with all the power in the warp cores, and Julian slowly inhales. “Captain T’ran suffers a severe allergy to penicillin, for example.” Julian makes a note on the new record for T’ran, then calls over his shoulder.

“Doctor N’daya,” Julian says crisply, forcing himself to concentrate as much as he can, “Look after this man here, will you?”

The best he can, he sets himself back to work.

**♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ ---** **ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS ---** **♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛**

 “Major Kira,” Julian says several hours later, quietly into his own comm link. The Cardassian, whose name Julian has discovered is Jasek, is sat very straight beside T’ran’s bed. The Vulcan woman is laid out on her belly, and a yellow strip of softly shining fabric is laid over the length of her spine. T’ran is heavily anaesthetized, and even unconscious, her expression is drawn into a tight, Vulcan expression of firm neutrality. “First Officer Jasek, of the Aronnax, is here in the infirmary.”

“The Cardassian?” Kira asks, tone slightly biting. She sounds ready to call security in at the very thought, and Julian suppresses the urge to sigh. “What’s the problem?”

“He’s exhausted,” Julian says, his hand going up to his brow and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I need him out of here, to go and get some rest, but he won’t leave. T’ran is going to be unconscious for several days while the damage to her spine is repaired – she’d be in too much pain, even as a Vulcan.” Julian had even offered Jasek an infirmary bed, although they had really lacked the space, and Jasek had quietly retorted that he would prefer to stay precisely where he was.

“So tell him to leave.” Julian _does_ sigh now. He considers telling Kira that he _has_ told the man to leave, three times now, and has been ignored each time. He considers telling Kira that he himself is tired, that he doesn’t want to argue with a patient, and he doesn’t want to call _security_ on him, but—

“Doctor,” Odo says, stepping over the threshold of the Infirmary, and Julian mutters a quick, “Bashir out,” before turning to the door. Odo looks up and down the infirmary – the Caitian is lying unconscious, breathing steadily as his ribs are knitted back together, and the rest of the crew are all gone. “How is the condition of Captain T’ran?”

“She’ll be unconscious for several days, Odo, you can’t talk to her right now. That’s her second in command, there.” Julian nods to Jasek, and he sees the way Odo’s not-eyebrows raise as he looks at the other man, but the Cardassian doesn’t so much as glance in their direction. Cardassian hearing, from what Julian has managed to assuage, is not as well-defined as the hearing capability Humans have, but he is certain Jasek will have heard their conversation, or at least realized they were having one. 

“Jasek,” Odo says, with some apparent familiarity as he takes a few steps forward, and the Cardassian glances to him. Recognition shows in his tired, green eyes, and Julian wonders how old he is, exactly. His shining black hair is long and tied at the nape of his neck in a tight braid, and he sees that there are a few wrinkles around his ridges, but Julian knows he would struggle to tell the difference between a fifty-year-old Cardassian and a one-hundred-year-old one. “I need to ask you some questions about what happened on the Aronnax, sir.”

“With respect, Constable Odo, my—”

“Your wife is unconscious. She will be unconscious for several days. Your crew has need of you.” Julian stands for a second in heart-stopping silence, and he stares open-mouthed at Jasek.

“His wife?” Julian repeats, and Jasek takes in a soft breath. It’s only now that Julian looks at him, _actually_ looks at him and thinks critically – Jasek isn’t wearing the Cardassian armour Julian would expect, or the big, square garments he sees on Garak. Jasek is wearing a Vulcan tunic, the Chinese collar adjusted for the shape of his long, ridged neck, with his blue-grey blood dried into the thick, yellow fabric. Jasek is wearing Vulcan boots, made of some rubbery material made from trees, and he has two woven bracelets around his wrist that don’t look anything like Cardassian materials. He’s a Cardassian, sure, but he’s wearing Vulcan clothes. And Jasek is _old_ – older than middle-aged, at least, and settled on Vulcan. Of course he must have had some personal connection to the ship, for no one ever sees non-military personnel on Deep Space Nine these days ( _barring Garak_ , he thinks snidely).

“Very well,” Jasek says, reluctantly, and he stands. He’s a very tall man, over six feet tall, but he moves with a slight rigidity on his left side: immediately Julian freezes, his gaze going to the Cardassian’s knee, but before he can say anything, Jasek says, “An old injury, Doctor. Psychosomatic, so my wife insists.” His voice is strangely kind, for that of a Cardassian, and Julian doesn’t feel as if he’s being laughed at. He feels intensely guilty for his ignorance, at _assuming_ Jasek could be nothing more than T’ran’s first mate, and really—

“I’ll inform you of her condition if it changes,” Julian says. Guilt flushes through him; he’s coming to the end of his ship, but fatigue is no excuse – he’s an absolute _genius_ , and he’d noticed next to nothing about this man. “I’m— I’m sorry, I, er— I didn’t realize-“

“Thank you, Doctor,” Odo interrupts him, obviously seeing no point in Julian’s apologies, and he puts his hands neatly behind his back, walking from the room with Jasek in his wake. Despite his limp, he moves quite fast, and Julian glances back to T’ran on the bed. T’ran is as still as a corpse, the only movement around her that of the machines measuring her heart-rate and breathing.

Julian’s never heard of Cardassians marrying _any_ other species, and Vulcans— well. Vulcans marry outside their species, of course, but with Humans or Orions or Betazoids… Not _Cardassians_.

**♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ ---** **ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS ---** **♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛**

Garak is already in Quark’s when Julian comes in for lunch the next afternoon. He leans back in his seat, sipping very leisurely at a fragrant, steaming tea that Julian hasn’t seen him drink before. Julian follows his gaze to a mirror, which reflects a window across the bar, which, in turn, reflects the form of Jasek seated at a table, examining the multiple PADDs stacked in front of him. With his right hand, he holds a Vulcan ink pen, and he writes neatly on soft, cream-coloured parchment. Julian’s UT doesn’t work on hand-writing, and of course he shouldn’t be able to read the pages from so far away anyway, but he recognizes the curving lines of Vulcan script, covering each page. It seems strangely traditional, and initially he thinks that Jasek must be writing letters of condolence for the families of his crew, but then he realizes it is something rather different – they aren’t _letters_ , he imagines, but some sort of prayer scroll, to be burned in the Bajoran chapel on the Promenade. The idea catches at Julian’s heartstrings, but also prompts in him a little perplexity, a little curiosity – what Cardassian would do such a thing?

“Making friends?” Julian asks, slipping into the seat across from Garak, Garak’s blue eyes meet Julian’s, and Julian doesn’t see curiosity in them, but something else. Anger? No… Garak looks almost _territorial_. Julian thinks of everything that he has done in his approach, wonders if he has somehow stepped out of place, if he has somehow been too bold with Garak. It hasn’t been so many months, after all, since Julian was forced to go to Enabran Tain for a sample of his leukocytes, since he was forced to augment the device in Garak’s own skull…

“I think _not_. Why should I want to be friends with a disgraced Cardassian, cast out from the Empire?” Julian frowns slightly, examining Garak with interest, and then he turns his head, looking directly at Jasek up on the balcony.

“Misery loves company?” Julian asks, dryly. _That_ tears Garak’s gaze away from Jasek’s reflection’s reflection, and Garak’s eyes stare into Julian’s own, the stare intent and piercing, but Julian knows better than to shyly look away, as he might have done when they had first met. If Julian has already overstepped, already piqued Garak’s temper in a way he had not intended, he may as well provoke him on purpose. But Garak isn’t angry: his teeth show as he displays a rather _dark_ smile, and Julian feels a slight flutter in his heart. Why is it, he wonders, that even now, Garak is such a delight, such a curiosity, so difficult to predict? Even in using Julian’s every power of analysis, his every hypercompetent sense and capability, Garak remains an enigma in himself… And how is a man like him to resist an enigma?

“He’s been here all night, Quark tells me,” Garak murmurs. His tone has lost the anger, the Cardassian pride, it had been tainted with a second ago, and now he looks only at Julian, and Julian feels the heat of Garak’s gaze on his face. Julian is confident, entirely confident, that he knows Garak better than anybody else on the station, and vice versa… But what of that? Garak knows Julian better that anybody else on the station, but that doesn’t really matter – even Garak, as much as he thinks Julian is a stupid, little boy at times, doesn’t know what Julian _is_ , where he comes from.

“Does Quark often feed you information?” Julian asks, before adding, “Is that why you wanted to meet here instead of the Replimat? So that you could watch him the whole time? Garak, you’ve really wounded me here. How am I supposed to remain my charming, arrogant self if you rank an _exile_ over me?” Garak looks at Julian, and Julian wonders for a moment what it would be like if Garak knew. What if Julian just _told_ him? Would that be so entirely insane? What if Julian told Garak that he was a freak, a product of genetic resequencing, a genius the unnatural like of which Garak could never conceive of?

 _Are you flirting with me, Doctor?_ Garak’s glittering eyes seem to ask, and Julian wonders if he is, or if he isn’t – it’s honestly hard to tell with Garak. They argue and they dance in circles, and Julian tries to say without saying that he’d be alright with Garak kissing him, that he’d be alright with Garak biting him…

“Are you not curious, Doctor?” Garak asks softly ( _Oh, God, I’m curious! What does your mouth taste like?)_ , adjusting his grip on his mug and bringing it to his lips. He doesn’t sip from it, though – he just inhales, his nostrils flaring slightly, and not for the first time Julian wonders what it must be like to smell with a Cardassian nose. He likes the twitch of the nose’s ridge as Garak’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly: would Julian trade his Human hearing for a Cardassian taste and smell? Perhaps. “Jasek was exiled from Cardassia some forty years ago – he served in the military for a time and was forced to resign his commission after an injury. Some say it was self-inflicted. But then, three years later, he left Cardassian space entirely, without permission at all from the Imperial Command. And married an _outsider_.” _Some say it was self-inflicted_. What absolute nonsense: for all Julian knows, it’s entirely true. Garak’s gaze is wandering, and Julian presses his shoes flat against the tiled floor of Quark’s bar, feeling its slight stickiness.

“Do Cardassians not believe in relationships with outsiders? I’ve known Cardassian soldiers to seek out Bajorans, Klingons, even _Humans_.” Julian says casually, and Garak’s gaze locks with his once again. Garak’s lips twitch, as if Julian has said something significant, and for a little while he doesn’t turn to glance at Jasek in the mirrors.

“ _Perhaps_ , my dear doctor, but hardly marriages. And Vulcan marriages, at that! They have _children_.”

“He’s got two bracelets on his arm,” Julian says quietly, following Garak’s gaze to Jasek’s reflection, and says, “They look handwoven.” Do Vulcan children weave bracelets, as Human children sometimes do? They must, he thinks. Vulcan children can’t possibly spend _all_ their time in those awful learning pits – oh, how Julian had _desperately_ wished to try one of those, when he’d been a child. But his father had once wrenched him back when a Vulcan boy in London had bitingly invited “Jules” to have a go, and Julian knows in hindsight that a boy like him would have excelled in the Vulcan education system, but that it would have let the whole cat out of the bag. Julian wishes he’d thrown off his father and launched himself into the pit, wished he’d enjoyed the chance while it had been proffered to him.

“Ah, you _see_ ,” Garak murmurs, amused. “You can pay attention, hmm? But just _look_ at him. Vulcan clothes, Vulcan boots, Vulcan _children!_ He’s forgotten Cardassia quite entirely.” He seems so _angry,_ so incensed, even though the anger is masked with Garak’s genteel speech patterns. Julian can’t truly find out much about Cardassia, given how difficult it is to get hold of real, unbiased information, but he’s always intrigued when Garak becomes passionate about one Cardassian tidbit or other – though he never can know for certain if the spy is telling the truth or not. He feels himself smile. “What do you think of him?”

“I think he loves his wife,” Julian says. He doesn’t know why he says it precisely like that, but the words come softly out of his mouth: it just seems so out-of-character for a Cardassian to be so focused on another person, let alone someone outside their species, but he hadn’t left her side for hours, even knowing she wouldn’t wake up. “I didn’t realize they were married  until Odo came in. That’s awfully stupid, I know, but I was actually rather surprised to have a Cardassian in our midst, and it rather threw me off-kilter.” There is no reason for Julian to make the confession, except that he can, and he thinks it seems relevant. Garak neither complains nor jumps upon the point to needle at him, but merely looks at Julian with that occasional, analytical curiosity that Julian thinks about in his off-hours and in the minutes, sometimes, before he goes to sleep.

“Chief Constable Odo and Jasek are, of course, _acquainted_.” Garak takes another sip of his tea, and he catches the eye of a Ferengi waiter, waving him over to take their lunch orders. “And Odo never forgets a face.” Julian takes the opportunity, as Garak is making his own order, to look at the reflection’s reflection: Jasek shifts in his seat, and Julian gets a look at his eyes from under the shadow of his eye ridges; the bruise on his chin, which he hadn’t allowed the medical staff to take care of, is being broken down from black to an obnoxious lilac. His eyes are watering slightly, a sign Julian recognizes as one of fatigue – he hasn’t slept, Julian realizes, since he arrived on the vessel. Can prayer scrolls truly be so important to him? Wouldn’t it be prudent – logical – to put them off until Jasek is well-rested?

“And what would you like to order, Doctor Bashir?” The Ferengi prompts him, not, judging by his slightly impatient expression, for the first time.

“Oh,” Julian says distractedly, and he turns his head reluctantly from the Cardassian for a few moments as he looks to the Ferengi. This one, Mag, is in his early thirties, and he and Garak seem to have a rather dangerous rapport, but as much as Mag shows his impatience, Julian never gets the impression the Ferengi personally dislikes him. He makes his order in rather a hurry, for his own sake if not the Ferengi’s, and then he glances back… But by the time he looks, Jasek is gone. Julian frowns, furrowing his brow, and Garak smiles like an angry dog.

“Jasek, isn’t it?” Garak asks sweetly. Mag looks between the two Cardassians, his gaze shifting between them as if following an invisible tennis ball between two racquets, and then he resolutely turns on his heel and makes his way over to the bar.

“I didn’t realize there were other Cardassians aboard,” Jasek says in a quiet, serious voice. He stands beside Julian’s chair, his PADDs stacked neatly under one of his arms, and Julian’s fast gaze runs quickly over the parchment paper in Jasek’s hand, and he makes out the little parts of the Vulcan script he can read: the name of a crew member, and a wish for his spirit to continue onward.

“ _Other_?” Garak repeats in an innocent fashion with his eyes wide, his tone saccharinely sweet, and Julian feels the distinct urge to step on his foot under the table, but Garak would only make a scene about it rather than taking the hint like someone else might do.

“Garak owns a tailor’s here on Deep Space Nine, Mr Jasek,” Julian says. Jasek looks to Julian, making eye contact with him, and Julian adds in a quieter voice, “I _will_ let you know if her condition changes, sir.” Jasek shifts his head, and his neck moves in the odd, reptilian fashion that Cardassians have, even under the high Vulcan collar; Vulcan clothes are much tighter and formfitting than the armour-like wear of most Cardassians Vulcans has seen, and Julian’s medical curiosity is more than piqued at the shape of Jasek’s body. Cardassian physiology remains something of a mystery, but just the square shape of his torso, lacking a dip at the waist one might see in a Vulcan or a Human, and with the ridges just slightly visible under the soft fabric, is a clue Julian hasn’t had before.

Jasek looks back to Garak, meeting his icy gaze, and for a long few moments they stare each other down. Back on Earth, there had been a few feral cats on the campus of Starfleet Academy – they were kept healthy, but allowed to keep to themselves, and were often friendly with different members of the campus corps. Julian had seen, once or twice, the stand-off between two cats as they stared each other down and refused to blink, slowly raising their hackles and arching their backs, until one lost their nerve.

It’s Jasek who looks away first, but Garak seems _irritated_ rather than pleased at his victory, and a ghost of confusion passes over Jasek’s face in response – _Yes_ , _Mr Jasek,_ Julian wants to agree, _Isn’t it bizarre when he reacts exactly as you don’t expect? I rather know the feeling._

“I will see you, Doctor Bashir,” Jasek says, with a polite bow of his head: even the way he holds himself reminds Julian more of the Vulcans than Cardassians – it’s stiff and measured, and while he has a heavy sense of grace, it lacks the reptilian slink that Cardassians usually have. Vulcans have a measured way about them, a quiet step, but it’s to do with the conservation of energy and the most logical, rational way to move around, not to do with desiring stealth.

Julian watches after him as he goes, with mild curiosity, and then he turns back to Garak. Garak’s jaw is set, his lips pursed together, and he is watching Julian with an _alarming_ intensity. “What, Garak? Are you jealous?”

“I would be careful, Doctor,” Garak murmurs, softly. “If you’re not careful, you might become friends with the _wrong_ sort of people.” His tone is laden with implication, and he leans forwards, stacking one of his hands over the other and laying his chin on the back of his hands: mirroring his movements exactly, Julian reflects Garak’s position, and he relishes how it closes some of the distance between them, although the table is still a woeful barrier. The position they’re in isn’t a naturally Cardassian one, which is perhaps why Garak chose it – perhaps he felt it might disarm Julian or confuse him!

Or perhaps it’s just the position he felt like settling in, and there was no ulterior motive at all, and to Garak, Julian seems like a ridiculous, naïve child for copying him.

“You might well be right,” Julian says in an equally quiet voice, arching his eyebrows meaningfully as he does so. The flirtation does little to dissuade Garak’s frown. “What do you think happened? Odo said there was a hull breach, but it was more than that – it was an explosion. It was an attack on the ship.” Julian had listened to Odo’s debriefing about it this morning to the command staff – he suspects the Maquis, thus far, and Julian won’t tell Garak _that_. But why would the Maquis try to attack a Cardassian that had been exiled for so many years? He knows Odo has instincts Julian himself lacks, but logically it seems like there’s a few missed connections between the concept and the result.

“There are many reasons one might wish to kill anyone on the ship, my dear,” Garak murmurs shrugging his shoulders loosely. Not for the first time, Julian wonders what Garak’s shoulders are like under all that stiff fabric – even in healing Garak’s broken ribs or bruised organs, Julian has never gotten a proper look at the way his body is built. “But the investigation ought reveal the truth. A version of it, at least.” Mag brings along their meals, hot from the replicator, and Garak changes the subject to something rather more innocuous.

Julian remains distracted, nonetheless. The Aronnax must have been attacked for _some_ reason, after all, and he’s certain there’s more to this situation than he can yet ascertain.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’ve examined the wreck in some detail,” Odo says, looking up from his PADD with a neutral expression on his moulded features. Julian glances around the table, at Jadzia, at Sisko, at Kira and Miles, and remains silent. When he first came to the station, he had felt deeply out of place at these command meetings, knowing full-well that every other person at the table thought he was an idiot, but now he’s proved himself enough, and he genuinely feels as if he’s among friends.  “From what I can extrapolate from our investigation, the damage was triggered by an explosive device hidden within the lining of the ship’s hull and was discovered by an engineer and mistakenly set off. Had the young man not discovered it, it would have gone off upon docking procedure.”

“And we were scheduled as the Aronnax’s next port?” Sisko asks, arching an eyebrow as he glances up from his PADD: Odo gives a curt nod.

“I suspect the Maquis,” Odo says cleanly. Julian worries the inside of his lower lip, drumming his fingers on the underside of the table so no one will see him fidgeting, just as they won’t see the bounce of his knee. “It would be in their best interests to frame a Cardassian – Mr Jasek, who has been exiled for so long, could easily be believed as someone attempting to win back the favour of the Empire by causing damage to the station. The ship’s log reveals contacts with those who we know to be Maquis, such as Wendyn Durras, an ex-Bajoran freighter captain, and Destiny Falmer, a smuggler renowned in six sectors. It is within the Maquis’ interest to remove the Federation from this space, and to stop short any potential good will the Cardassians might have – causing massive damage to Deep Space Nine and framing a Cardassian in one fell swoop makes complete sense.”

“Does anyone else corroborate it?” Julian asks. Odo gives him an arch look, and Julian feels Miles, Kira and Jadzia stare at him, obviously showing surprise. Sisko glances to Julian, but his gaze isn’t especially disapproving – it merely slowly tracks back to Odo, and he looks at his Chief of Security expectantly.

“I have sources,” Odo says, shrugging his shoulders slightly before he says, “I cannot reveal names, Doctor, but I’ve had two Maquis sources confirm that they were aware of the plan.” Julian frowns, furrowing his brow and pressing his lips tightly together: something about the whole situation feels just slightly wrong. The Maquis hate Cardassians, of course, and he knows that even Major Kira had all but spat the word when talking about Jasek the night previous, but nonetheless…

“What is it, Doctor?” Sisko asks. He is looking at Julian with his head tilted to the side, his gaze expectant, and once again there is no sign of irritation or impatience, or even curiosity. Sometimes, Julian thinks Sisko could go up against a Vulcan in a poker game.

“Well— Constable,” Julian says. Everyone is staring at him, and while he doesn’t feel as self-conscious as he might once upon a time, he’s more used to Deep Space Nine now, and if arguing with Garak has given him _anything_ , it’s boosted confidence in his opinions. “They came from Ferenginar, and you know what Ferengi are like: for all the gold-pressed Latinum in the world, it wouldn’t be worth it to help some disgraced Bajorans.” Kira’s head snaps towards him. “No, no, Major— I’m just saying it as the Ferengi would see it. Even if Jasek would be a fall man of sorts, why would Ferengi help? It’s not in their best interest to help the losing side, particularly not when their shipments come in toward Deep Space Nine, and when the Grand Nagus has such fondness for the place. Besides, surely the crew would have mentioned in their reports if they’d seen anyone out of the ordinary on planetside. I’m not saying the Maquis are incapable of stealth, but there’s something about this situation that… I don’t know. It slots together too easily.”

Odo presses his not-lips together, leaning back in his chair and considering what Julian has said. His fingers brush his own, soft chin, and he looks at Julian very thoughtfully. Odo doesn’t like to be contradicted, Julian knows, but he understands that Julian isn’t just trying to do his job for him, and he meets Julian’s gaze. “You have an alternate theory, Doctor?”

Julian hesitates.

“No,” he says, awkwardly. “I just don’t think the Maquis make sense.” Odo scowls at him: Odo’s convenient good will is apparently lost. “Have you told Mr Jasek your theory, Odo?”

“It is not my custom, Doctor, to tell every potential suspect what my theories might be,” Odo says, rather haughtily, and Julian cannot suppress his own scoff of amusement. At the way Odo looks at him, Julian lets out another disbelieving sound, shaking his head.

“You do it with Quark!” he points out, and Odo snaps his head around to stare at him, absolutely incensed.

The meeting, after that, does not go well.

**♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ ---** **ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS ---** **♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛**

Julian is off-duty today, barring the command meeting, and he’s glad to be free from work: he knows full-well that for the time being, he’d be lacking in the necessary bedside manner to practise. He lingers on the Promenade, looking through the window into Garak’s shop: he’s leaning gracefully back in his chair, to the side of his desk, and there’s a softly shimmering fabric laid across his lap that seems to ripple like water. From this distance, Garak oughtn’t be able to sense Julian watching him, and he’s utterly focused on his needle as he stitches a sleeve into place by hand: it’s sort of beautiful, watching him work with so much certainty, so much easy finesse. Julian only wishes he could watch him from a closer distance, without Garak teasing him, or setting his work aside – but there are things that can be said plainly between them, and there are things that have to be kept to innuendo. And Julian’s desire to sit quietly in Garak’s presence, watching him work, listening to him speak, merely enjoying being part of the space around him? That’s a desire he can’t afford to voice at all.

Julian has met a great many doctors in his life, at the Academy, at Starfleet outposts, and in many places on Earth, throughout the galaxy – he’s met people who approached medicine in so many different ways, but those he was always most envious of were those who could approach medicine with _dignity_ , with a sort of inherent poise. He only ever spares a thought toward elegance when he sees Garak work, but that doesn’t make him less jealous. There’s something else there, in the distracted whorl of thought and emotion, the implication of an emotion that Julian doesn’t want to feel right now, a sort of wanting powerlessness – and he’s looked too long.

Garak has sensed him despite the distance between them, and he glances up from his work, giving a cursory glance to his shop’s door before he looks through the window and sees Julian standing there, on the opposite side of the Promenade. Garak watches him for a moment, and then he smiles, lifting up a hand in a wave.

Plain, simple Garak, with no _inhuman_ instincts at all.

Julian returns the wave, uncertain and hyperaware of his own gracelessless ( _but how are you meant to compete with a Cardassian anyway?)_ and he walks hurriedly across the room, dipping down a corridor. He taps his fingers upon his leg, thinking about the meeting as he makes his way, unthinking, towards the habitat ring. Perhaps he has moved this way unconsciously, or perhaps he knew on some level what he was to do, but he recalls the number of the room Jasek is temporarily renting, and he makes his way toward it, through the winding halls of the ring. He taps the buzzer, and he waits in silence for the longest time (and yet he knows it’s only seconds) outside of Jasek’s room.

Jasek’s doors open, and the Cardassian stands in the doorway, looking at Julian impassively. It is at this moment, with an uncomfortable certainty, that Julian realizes that Jasek hasn’t smiled at him, or at Garak, or at anybody, _once_ in his time on Deep Space Nine. Perhaps that oughtn’t be surprising for a man whose wife is taking up a space in the infirmary, but Cardassians constantly smile – they smile to be sarcastic, to be cruel, to be happy, seductive, angry… Julian is no expert when it comes to Cardassia’s cultural complexities, but he realizes he has become used enough to Cardassians that to see one without a smile, fake or otherwise, is unsettling in a way he would be hard-pressed to describe.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Jasek,” Julian feels himself blurt out. Behind the taller man, he sees the flicker of Jasek’s meditation flame, and he realizes he has interrupted what is likely a nightly ritual of prayer and meditation – just as it is for Vulcans. Had Jasek burned those prayer scrolls, Julian wonders? “I’m not here to update you on T’ran’s condition – I actually wondered if I might ask you about your time on Ferenginar?” He tries to keep himself straight-backed and professional, but the humid heat from the room radiates outwards in a way that makes it difficult to retain composure – is this heat more like Cardassia or Vulcan? Julian had only ever enjoyed a brief visit to the Vulcan, taking a short course in Vulcan field medicine in the verdant expanse of one of the planet’s most luscious nature parks, very different to the majority of the planet’s ecosystem.

“I have already updated your Chief of Security as to such information,” Jasek says. His voice is quiet, but perfectly enunciated – Julian wonders, for a moment, if his UT is translating the tuts and sibilant sounds of Vulcan, or the plosives and hard “k” sounds of Kardasi, and then he wonders if it matters. “I assume you have alternate lines of inquiry.” Jasek steps back, allowing Julian entrance. “Come.”

Julian follows Jasek inside, and when Jasek takes his position on his knees, Julian sinks to the ground across from him, seating himself cross-legged and looking at the Cardassian over the open flame. He feels the wet heat of the room sink under his uniform, making him sweat, but he does his best not to show it: the station itself is a few degrees higher than the average ideal temperature back on Earth, but this room is warmer still, the humidity cloying and lingering on his bare skin. It turns out it isn’t a candle that lights the dimness of the room – it’s a traditional meditation lamp that hovers an inch over the grey carpet, and it looks to be hand-carved. Julian examines the carvings on the lamp, looking at its intricacy with a quiet wonder and wondering how old it must be.

“I’ve lived on Vulcan for over thirty years, Doctor,” Jasek says, and Julian looks up from the lamp, staring at him. What is it about Cardassians and being able to read minds? They’re not even meant to be a telepathic people. “You seem surprised that I have assimilated.”

“With respect, sir, it doesn’t seem in the Cardassian nature to assimilate.” For a moment, there is silence as Julian looks at the stony expression of neutrality on Jasek’s face, and then Julian hears the crackle of Jasek’s low, rumbling laugh. The soft, beige fabric of his robe shakes with his amusement, his teeth brightly white in the darkness of the room, and Julian stares at him, his lips parted slightly in pure surprise.

“T’ran once told me the same thing, some weeks before we got married,” Jasek’s smile is warm, and it comes easily to his face. Suddenly, he looks three times as Cardassian as he had before, and the strange uncertainty Julian had felt around him is soothed. He imagines, for a moment, what T’ran will be like when she wakes – will she smile and show her teeth, as a Cardassian would? “Come, make of me your inquiries.”

“Odo suspects the Maquis of sabotaging the Aronnax,” Julian says, laying his hands loosely in his lap. “The idea being that they’d make Starfleet believe you’d wanted to destroy Deep Space Nine, so that you could weasel your way back into the good books of the Cardassian High Command. But… The Maquis would jump at the chance to sow discord amongst the Cardassian ranks, but they know Cardassian High Command better than to believe that a traitor would want to return after forty years. I mean, of all the people to pick – I know you’re a Cardassian, but like you said, you’ve been on Vulcan for over three decades, and I read your file: they gave you _citizenship_ on their planet, and Vulcans don’t do that for anyone who isn’t completely naturalized and assimilated.” Jasek is watching Julian, and his green eyes are the colour of jade, dark in colour and reflecting what little light there is in the room.

“I’ve not heard a question yet, Doctor,” Jasek states simply, and Julian feels a rush of blood to his cheeks.

“Um— I wanted to ask if you remembered anything out of the ordinary on Ferenginar. Cardassians have photographic memories, don’t they?” Jasek’s lip twitches with amusement, and he arches one of his eyeridges. There’s a sort of mischief in his eyes, a Cardassian mischief Julian is well-accustomed to – he sees it most in Cardassians when they speak with Humans. It should grate on him, he supposes, but it merely serves to make him more curious about the Cardassian way of doing things.

“Do they? I had no idea.”

“They’re trained into you, from childhood. I know Odo wouldn’t have suggested this, because he’s— well: I was just thinking that if you meditate every night, like Vulcans do, and obviously you’re mediating now, this morning, and you have the photographic memory, can’t you, um- that is to say—”

“Could I focus myself upon my own memories, combing through them for forgotten details, and examine evidence of non-Ferengi interference?” Jasek’s expression is even more impossible to read than that of most Cardassians as he tilts his head slightly to the side: Julian is struck suddenly by the desperate urge to blurt out an apology, but Jasek gives a very slow, measured nod. “An interesting thought.” Jasek’s left hand hovers beside the lamp, the light of the orange flames reflecting against the grey flesh of his palm. “One, I confess, that I had not considered.”

“Wow,” Julian says. At Jasek’s questioning eyebrow, he says, “Admitting you didn’t think of something doesn’t seem very Cardassian _or_ Vulcan.”

“An expert in both, are you?” Jasek asks.

“Oh, in neither,” Julian says immediately, and Jasek chuckles before the laugh slowly melts away from his mouth. He closes his eyes, his expression changing to one of complete impassivity, and he coaxes the lamp up between his palms. The flame dims slightly, and behind his closed eyelids, Julian sees the shift of Jasek’s eyes, searching.

He’s observed Vulcan meditation rituals in the past, and he’s watched Jadzia at meditation a few times, as well as approaching yoga now and then himself – he’s read about all manner of different meditations, of course, but he can’t help but wonder at the differences here. There are so many gaps in his knowledge of Cardassian physiology, but this is something different again – the Cardassian psychology is a complex one, Julian is sure, even with the bits and pieces of bare information he’s managed to draw together, but the idea of Cardassian meditation is a completely novel concept. Cardassians, from what Julian can glean, are very focused on compartmentalization and putting certain thoughts aside: doesn’t meditation rather force one to be honest with oneself? With one’s feelings?

As Jasek takes in measured, even breaths, Julian examines him – he’s wearing a robe Julian would usually expect of a Vulcan dressed for bed, one that wraps over his chest and comes down in a steep V. Julian can see every separate ridge on each side of his neck, as well as the grey, rough flesh of his chest. He has a large, spoon-shaped crest where his sternum must be, like the one on his forehead, but bigger, and with a less pronounced curve to it. He can see the shape of ridges under the soft fabric of his robe, and he realizes, in a sudden, ridiculous rush of information, that Cardassians might not have nipples.

Vulcans have nipples. Humans have nipples. Ferengi have nipples, and Bolians, and Tellarites – Caitians have up to ten nipples each! Do Cardassians? There is a beat between that thought and the next: _Does Garak?_

 “We were on Ferenginar for a little over a week, but as we came through Cardassian space, there was some damage to our hull – a piece of meteorite loaded with materials that disrupted our shields. One of the Ferengi, not one of the engineers who assisted us, but there was a salesman from the agora—” Julian frowns slightly, wondering why the translator had chosen _that_ word. Agora is rather archaic, and not something he would expect to be applied to the bazaars of Ferenginar. “Mentioned that in the past weeks, a Cardassian had been in the area. I didn’t bother paying him for further information, but I heard the name in the background of some conversation or other… Denor. Gul Denor.” Jasek’s smile is subtle, and it reminds Julian of Garak’s more superior, sarcastic smiles. “Did you excel at the Academy, Doctor? What was it that made you choose medicine?”

“Mr Jasek?” The change in topic rather takes Julian by surprise, and he looks directly into the older man’s face, trying to glean what precisely he’s saying. How much older is Jasek than Garak? It would be rude to ask, Julian is certain, but he cannot help but be _curious_ – but Julian doesn’t even know how old Garak is. How old _is_ Garak? Why can’t Julian hold a conversation with a Cardassian without thinking only of him? Surely it’s insensitive of him, on some level – or at the very least, obsessive. Were he to think only of Jadzia when speaking with a Trill, or of Quark with a Ferengi, he might think he had a problem. With Garak… He _knows_ there’s a problem.

“The way you combine ideas, young man: you know little of Cardassian memory or Vulcan mental organisation, and yet you thought of the two in complement of each other. Even my own children struggled with such a concept, and they themselves were borne of Cardassia and Vulcan in coalescence.” _So he does have children_ , says an inner voice of Julian’s that sounds uncomfortably like Garak. Jasek’s smile widens slightly, and he adds, “One might have thought an aptitude test would suggest you apply for a command role.”

“I always wanted to be a doctor,” Julian says: the command track has a lot more tests and requirements than the medical one. He shudders to think how quickly the truth of his genetics might have been discovered had he gone for a command role: he’d lack the tools to defend himself and mask his genetics, and even so, command roles are more often tested to be who they _say_ they are. To have higher-ups looking at his DNA so often, even though his DNA isn’t obviously unnatural… Julian stares at Jasek, searching the old Cardassian’s face to ensure that Jasek believes him, and Jasek chuckles. He does, and why shouldn’t he? It’s not a lie.

“Ah, the determination of youth.” Jasek leans back on his heels, and he says, “You may bring this information back to Odo. I would speak with him myself, but…” Jasek shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t care to.”

“You don’t like him?” Julian asks, and rather emphatically, Jasek gives a shake of his head.

“On the contrary,” Jasek says easily, “I became acquainted with Odo a little before I left the Empire, and he and I… Get on.” He stares Julian in the face, and says, “I don’t wish for his particular mode of repartée for the time being. Odo has never been permitted his own culture, Doctor, but he dislikes outliers. He no more understands the choice I have made than he understands a tasting tongue.” Julian stands, giving a short nod of his head, and Jasek watches him. Julian guesses that he has some question to ask, but when it comes, it’s unexpected.

“You and the tailor – Garak. How long have the two of you been involved?” Julian feels the sudden jump of the heart in his chest, feels his eyes widen, feels himself suddenly embarrassed and put on the spot – he knows _exactly_ how well he and Garak have a gap between them, but here Jasek is, picking precisely on the chink in Julian’s armour.

“Involved?” Julian repeats. “We’re not— we’re not _involved_.”

For the barest moment, Jasek looks surprised, _genuinely_ surprised. The expression passes across his features like a fleeting ghost, and then Jasek says, “My apologies, Doctor. Evidently I misunderstood.” Julian nods his head, and as he goes toward the door, Jasek adds, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr Jasek,” Julian says, and he lets the doors of Jasek’s rooms close shut behind him as he leaves.

**♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ ---** **ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS ---** **♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛**

“A martini, please, Quark. Strong.” Julian sits hunched over on one of the stools, his forearms rested against the bar’s edge. Quark frowns at him, his head tilting to the side, but Quark knows when it’s best to counsel his patrons and when it’s best to let them be: not only does he set a martini down between Julian’s hands, but he puts another on the bar in front of him, so that Julian can work his way through a second without having to speak to anybody.

After so many years on the station, it’s nice that Quark can leave him be when the situation demands it.

 _Involved?_ He hears his own voice echo through his head, bouncing between the inner walls of his skull, and he stares down at the olive floating in the mix of his gin and vermouth. He wishes he could be that olive, wishes he could be submerged in alcohol with no hope of getting out, and— He takes a sip of the drink. That sort of abstract train of thought is best reserved for once the whole martini’s finished. _Involved? We’re not— We’re not involved._

What does Garak’s mouth taste like? What is his body like, underneath those armour-like tunics he wears? Are his shoulders rounded, or sharp at the edges? How big is the spoon on his chest, and how defined, and how _blue_? Does the blood show under his skin when he’s excited, turning the grey ridges on his neck to purple, making the ridges swell? Julian’s mouth is slightly dry, and the martini doesn’t really fix it, resting on his tongue and going down easily when he swallows.

And what is the point of wondering? What is the _point_ of all this?

Garak greeted him that first time by grasping at his shoulders, and Julian can still feel the ghost of Garak’s fingertips pressing into the muscle of his shoulders, his thumbs pressing against the blades of Julian’s shoulders. Garak had squeezed a little too hard, at first, and then suddenly relented as if the softness of Julian’s flesh had been a surprise to him. Garak is a man who freely makes contact with those around him, inviting intimacy or using physical divides to manipulate those around him in one direction or another, but even _that_ , even just that first grasp at Julian, was so, so bold. So much bolder than any other terribly bold thing Garak’s ever done. And Julian had sat in shock for several minutes, titillated and overwhelmed and embarrassed all at once, because _there_ was a man he just didn’t understand!

Reaching up, he touches his own shoulder, and wonders how many times Garak has touched him since. How many times has Garak grasped at his wrist and pulled him out of the way of something, or guided him into a position with a palm upon Julian’s lower back, or grabbed Julian by the arms to examine him?

 _But he doesn’t want you. Cardassians seem to argue as a way of flirtation, that much is true, but as much as you argue with him, as much as you insult him or throw yourself at his every potential weakness. The tension between you grows and grows, but he does nothing about it!_ Julian drains his glass, committing something of a sin when it comes to a drink as dignified (and with such a high percentage) as this. _And you don’t do anything about it either._

He sets the empty glass down, and the quiet _clink_ of its base against the bar’s polished surface seems to cut through Julian’s bones. _We’re not involved_. And they aren’t – he and Garak are _distinctly_ not involved, but Julian feels the want heavy in his chest, feels the desire to connect to and understand Garak, to dominate the space around him and _force_ Garak to close the distance between them.

And what had Jasek meant? It hadn’t been a jibe at Julian, he’s certain, it had been an honest question, but why would anyone think they were involved? Jasek hadn’t been close enough to witness Julian and Garak arguing, hadn’t been able to misconstrue any element of their relationship…

With a sigh, he sets his head against the bar, feeling the cool tile against the skin of his forehead.

“You still want that second drink, Bashir?”

“Mmm,” Julian hums against the bar, miserably. He feels the empty glass leave the proximity of his hand and hears the slide of the full one across the tile of the bar, pressed against Julian’s palm. Inhaling, he props his chin on his forearm, and he says, “You’re a good bartender, Quark.” Quark looks at him suspiciously and walks away.

Julian resists the urge to call him back and demand if he and Garak seem like a couple.

**♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ ---** **ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS ---** **♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛**

T’ran wakes the following evening.

She struggles visibly to speak, pain seemingly overpowering her body: when Julian brings the hypospray to her neck, she lets out a heavy sigh, and coughs quietly. Her eyes flit around the Infirmary, and Julian mutters an order for one of the nurses to call Jasek in from his room. Laid upon her belly with her laid laid on its side, T’ran can’t easily survey the entire room from her position, and Julian has to remind her to remain still.

“Please, don’t move, Captain T’ran,” Julian says, holding up his tricorder and ensuring her heartrate and breathing are within acceptable limits. The pain is his biggest concern at this moment – the fact that she is awake is wonderful, but soon it will be necessary for him to begin testing the nerve response in her back and ensuring she has full sensation. “You’re in a lot of pain, I know, but it’s because of a spinal injury – it needs some more days to heal. Your ship was—”

“What is the status of my crew?” T’ran’s voice is clean, low and entirely bereft of emotion. Her black hair is tied messily in a bun behind her head, and the unkemptness of it seems all the more out of place now that she is conscious, contrasting with her Vulcan features and unemotive voice. In a Human captain, or a Bajoran, perhaps Julian would do his best to change the subject, but Vulcans are often distinctly stubborn, and there is no sense in trying to wait until T’ran is entirely healed before breaking the news to her.

“Fourteen dead, Ma’am. Some serious injuries were also sustained, but yours was the worst.” Julian sets the tricorder aside, reaching for another instrument and very tenderly drawing it down the length of T’ran’s spine, creating a three-dimensional recreation that hovers in the air in holographic form.

“The Aronnax?” T’ran asks stoutly. Julian watches as she individually flexes the fingers and thumbs on each of her hands, obviously checking for any nerve damage herself, and Julian feels his lip twitch. It’s incredible to see someone so severely injured, pinned in place, and display no anxiety at all – but then, what should Julian expect of Vulcans?

“I think the necessary repairs are well underway now.” T’ran is silent for a long few moments. Julian has never known a Vulcan to hesitate, and it takes a second for Julian to realize why: Julian feels a twinge of guilt, and immediately says, “Your husband is currently staying in the habitat ring here on the station – he’s on his way. He sustained a few minor injuries, but he’s hale and hearty. He carried you off the ship.” T’ran’s grey eyes flit to Julian, examining him, analysing him, _judging_ him.

“My thanks, Doctor,” T’ran murmurs, and it’s then that Jasek all but sprints into the room. He skids to a halt before T’ran: he’s barefoot, wearing soft, brown trousers and a plunging, green wrap – he must be _freezing_ in the comparatively cool atmosphere of Deep Space Nine, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Julian watches him put out his hand, his index and middle finger outstretched, and T’ran does the same, pressing her fingers to his although she cannot move her body. T’ran’s eyes close shut as she keeps her hand to Jasek’s, continuing the contact of the Vulcan kiss, and Jasek says, “She’s still in pain.” Julian’s head whips toward her, and he grabs another hypospray.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands, and T’ran remains quiet as she opens her eyes once more, merely giving Julian a glance that tells him nothing.

“My wife is strong,” Jasek answers lightly, and T’ran presses her lips together, otherwise not changing her expression at all: she does not flinch when Julian presses the next hypospray to her neck.

“Is that better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Julian takes out a PADD, noting down some readings from the tricorder and then beginning to look over the hologram of T’ran’s spine. T’ran asks, “For how long will I be constrained to this infirmary bed, Doctor?” As she speaks, Jasek looks down at her with an entirely undisguised affection, and Julian gets the sense merely by being here that somehow, he is intruding.

“At least another few days, Captain,” Julian says, rather more sternly than he intended the words to come out. “But for now I can’t even let you sit up, or face outward.”

“It could be worse, my darling,” Jasek says. His thumb is rubbing a slow and rhythmic circle on the back of T’ran’s hand – Julian knows full well that such a motion is undoubtedly banned in public spheres of Vulcan, but they’re not on Vulcan, are they? “You could be dead.”

“Were you not speaking Vulcan, Jasek, I would worry for my translation matrix. How is it that you have spoken this language for so long and confused the words for “worse” and “better?” That answers the vague question Julian had asked himself the night previous – Jasek is speaking Vulcan, then, not Cardassian. It’s a curious choice. Has Jasek really given up so much to blend in on Vulcan? How much of it is naturalization upon the planet, Julian wonders, and how much is done for T’ran herself? Julian does not know.

“Feisty as a le-matya, though thankfully not so ugly,” Jasek says affectionately, and Julian turns away to note down a few more readings. It makes him almost uncomfortable, the ease with which they flirt together – he has just been thinking of grace and finesse, and here are a Vulcan and a Cardassian, showing exactly that with one other. He feels he is intruding even more, but he can’t exactly flee for in the moment: for another hour, he stews in the discomfort of the situation.

Once he had arrived home last night, stumbling cocktail-drunk into his quarters, he had laid for the longest time in the centre of his living space, lying on his yoga mat so that he wouldn’t have to crawl the awful distance to his bed. He had thought about Garak, and then about Garak, and then a little bit about Jasek and the Maquis, and then about how miserable his parents used to make him, and then about how much he loved Kukulaka, and then about how pleasant it would be to have a shower.

He had then made the rather inadvisable decision to drunkenly attempt the downward dog pose, and he had vomited into his fruit bowl, ruining the half-bunch of bananas he had been slowly demolishing in the past week.

After waking up and taking a hangover cure, Julian had felt rather refreshed, but now? Julian feels the complexities of his thoughts, the layers and layers of them, settling upon him once again. When Doctor N’daya takes over the shift, Julian is grateful to leave, and he makes his way from the Medical Bay toward the Promenade.

Garak’s doors proclaim that the tailor’s is closed for business, but they’re not yet locked, and Julian steps inside. Now that Garak no longer has to worry about pesky customers, he has dimmed the lights to be more acceptable to his Cardassian eyes, and Julian has to take a few moments to allow his own eyes to adjust to the darkness. He examines Garak from behind as the Cardassian pretends not to know he’s there before he says, “Up for a drink in Quark’s?”

Garak, dramatic as he is, goes so far as to _gasp_. “My dear _doctor_ – when did you get here?”

“Please,” Julian says quietly, in as serious a tone as he’s ever used with the other man, and Garak turns to look at him. His grey lips frown. He drops the act entirely, and his very posture as well as his expression seems to say how serious he is. What does Garak think he’s doing here, Julian wonders? Does he think Julian’s doing to reveal a secret? That he’s going to mount a seduction?

“Give me one moment to lock up, my dear, and we can go.” Maybe he doesn’t think anything. Maybe for once, Garak is thinking nothing – maybe Julian can think nothing too, and they can sit in blissful, peaceful silence together.

He dismisses the thought as soon as it comes.


	3. Chapter 3

Garak walks quietly beside Julian – uncomfortably quietly, in fact. When Garak sneaks up behind him, Julian doesn’t pay it any heed, but when they’re walking together like this he becomes hyperaware of his clothes shifting against each other, of his bootsteps on the ground, of the click his pips make together when he turns his head. Silence radiates from Garak like a spicy scent, and when he catches Julian looking at him, he raises his eye ridges in question.

Julian looks away and walks faster.

Julian thinks of walking onwards, of leading Garak to his quarters, of bringing the other man entirely out of Garak’s territory – out of his quarters, or his shop, or even the Promenade where his informants and “friends” are everywhere – and bringing him into Julian’s own. Garak has never been into Julian’s rooms, which are half the size of Garak’s own, and he wonders how Garak would respond to being in rooms that are thick with Julian’s scent, his energy, and no one else’s.

Would Garak see it as an invitation? Would Julian mean it as one?

They sit down on one of the observation decks in Quark’s (Julian doesn’t want to be anywhere near the noise of the dabo tables), and Julian orders an obscenely-named cocktail that prompts a stare from Garak. He’s not truly scandalized: he just likes to make the appearance of it, now and then. Julian had woken that morning with the taste of vermouth and bile clinging to the roof of his mouth, and he has no desire to sip at a martini tonight – besides, the cocktail is fruity, and offers a distraction from Garak himself.

“What is it, my dear?” Garak asks, softly. He makes no assumptions, makes no analyses based on Julian’s summoning: he is simply here, silently awaiting whatever Julian has to say, and the idea…

He debates asking, with all the aggression he has to hand, _Why won’t you just kiss me?_ He thinks that without appropriate context, this might come across as childish or ridiculous, and perhaps the tiniest bit desperate, as if Julian can’t possibly get attention from anyone _else_ on the station. Julian sips from his drink, lets out a sigh, and doesn’t exactly plan the torrential outpour of words from his mouth.

“It’s just— look, alright, I know that it shouldn’t matter to me, and I’m a doctor, and I myself have been in all _manner_ of mixed relationships, but— The way they _are_ together. They just— they seem so inherently incompatible, but they mix so well!” Garak’s expression is unreadable. He examines Julian with apparent interest, but his features betray nothing more, and when Mag brings their drinks, he takes a sip from his watered-down kanar. Julian takes a big gulp of his cocktail, and stares at the surface of the table. “And I don’t care about your stupid opinions about how he’s not Cardassian enough anymore or— or what-have-you. I just… I don’t _understand_ why I feel like this. I feel like I’m intruding whenever I’m within the room with them.” Garak’s left eye ridge rises nearly imperceptibly, but his expression is otherwise neutral. “And I know, I _know_ that I’m babbling, because I always do that in situations where I’m uncomfortable and I don’t mind saying it because I know you know and you probably make note of it whenever I do it and the thing is, I don’t understand why anyone would do this to them of all people anyway just because he’s a Cardassian, just because he’d be a—Unless it was personal, obviously, but I don’t know that it is personal, and I… And actually, that’s not what I’m annoyed at all! I don’t have any especial investment in the cause of Jasek and his wife.”

“Is that so?” Garak asks, in a measured tone. He is looking at Julian with all the polite interest and detachment that he reserves for of the books Julian asks him to read, and Julian lets out a huff of breath.

“That’s so,” Julian says, and then blurts out, “My problem is _you_.” Julian stares down, wide-eyed, at the shining surface of the table. He holds his cocktail glass very tightly. When he dares to glance up, Garak is smiling at him softly – fondly. “ _What_?” Julian demands, archly.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing at all. You have every right to a problem with me, so it seems,” Garak murmurs, his blue eyes sparkling with something that is definitely _not_ “nothing”. Julian’s eyes drop to the precise shape of Garak’s lips: they’re quirked into a slight smirk, a slight shine on the blue-grey flesh from the overhead lights, and Julian thinks about Jasek asking, _“How long have you and the tailor been involved?”_

“Garak,” Julian says, very lowly.

“Yes?” Garak’s teeth show when his mouth opens – they’re sharper than human teeth, but not as obviously as a Klingon’s or a Ferengi’s, and his tongue is a deep purple.

“You did something.”

“Did I?” Garak’s tone is full of innocence, but then, it’s _always_ full of innocence. Julian doesn’t think (outside of the incident with his implant) that Garak has ever sounded remotely guilty in all the time they’ve known each other.

“You—You _implied_ something to Jasek, something I didn’t notice.” Julian wants to keep watching Garak’s mouth, but he tears his gaze away and meets Garak’s eyes, leaning over the table slightly, so that they’re closer. Garak mirrors him, as is his wont, and there’s half a foot between them; Julian can smell the slightly spicy scent of whatever it is Garak uses in his hair, and a softer, soapy scent from his clothes.

“Prove it,” Garak whispers. His eyes are unblinking. Julian’s are too. The innocence has drained away, now, left with a sort of urgent, biting energy, but Julian will not turn his head away, will neither be deterred or distracted from what he has set his mind to.

“I don’t need to,” Julian murmurs back. “I was in his quarters—” Garak’s nostrils flare, and his lip curls momentarily. “And he asked how long we’d been _involved_. What did you do?”

“I don’t believe I admitted to doing anything.”

“It was subtle, or I’d have noticed it. And, Garak, we are _not_ involved.”

“Aren’t we?” Garak asks: Julian heart skips a beat, and he feels a rush between his ears.

“ _No_ ,” he spits.

“I thought as much.”

“But you still—”

“I didn’t do a thing.” Garak’s tone is more dangerous now, with a slight edge to it. It’s not defensive – it’s more like a challenge, and Julian feels the want to yell in frustration. Why does he have to be _like_ this? He’s just so _bizarre_ , and Julian doesn’t understand why he has to be such an enigma.

“Did you want to?” Julian asks, changing tact but keeping his softly urgent murmur. Garak’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flash, and Julian wishes he knew what that meant, wishes he could study Cardassians the way he has studied other people, wishes he could read up on their etiquette and culture and even on the _language_ , but there are no Cardassian books he can possibly get hold of.

“You’re changing the terms of the argument, my dear.” What could Garak have done? Something Julian hadn’t seen, or something he _had_ seen and not understood… Understanding comes to him in a sudden flash, and Julian grins his victory. “What?” He keeps his eyes on Garak’s. His own are starting to hurt from the dryness, from not blinking. Julian might not wish to be near the dabo tables, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to gamble.

He lunges forwards, puts his hand on the side of Garak’s neck, shifts himself forwards over the table, turns his head as he dips in—

And pauses with his mouth _nearly_ touching Garak’s own, with but a few micrometres between them. Garak is stiff as a board, his eyes closed, his neck shifted imperceptibly into the grasp of Julian’s hand, and when his eyes open, Julian has never seen him look so _furious_. How long ago could Julian have done this? How long ago could he have closed the gap between them?

“What is it you think you’re doing, Doctor Bashir?”

“The aim of the game is to make sure I’m the last one to blink, isn’t it? That’s what it was with Jasek,” Julian points out, knowing his breath, scented with fruity notes of alcohol, is ghosting over Garak’s lips. “You blinked first, Garak.” He can smell the kanar lingering on Garak’s tongue, on his lips, can feel the cool, hard-ridged flesh under his left hand, can feel the edge of the table digging into his side – and it’s now that he remembers where he is. Quark is staring up at them from the bar with his mouth open and his eyes wide, unabashedly shocked by what he’s seen. A few Bajorans around the room are glancing at them with various expressions of scandalized horror or curiosity, but they don’t matter. “I thought it was just Cardassian fare, but it wasn’t, was it? He thought we were involved, because when he stood behind me, you got _territorial_. That’s what that staring contest was about. Just like a moment ago, when you realized I’d been in his quarters.”

Garak isn’t leaning back, isn’t leaning away from him. He’s letting Julian touch his neck – and these ridges are deeply sensitive, Julian shows, and this is probably very improper in public, but there aren’t enough Cardassians here for anyone to know that. Garak has the gall to smile, and Julian resists the urge to push him onto the ground – he’s never had very many violent urges before meeting Garak, but now they come and come and come.

“What do you know about a man called Gul Denor?” Julian asks, his tone interrogative. Garak’s smile drops like a piano from a skyscraper in one of the old cartoons – it’s ridiculous, the way he suddenly becomes so scandalized and furious so incensed. Is that how it is in Garak’s mind, eh? It’s fine to run circles around _Julian_ , but as soon as the tables are turned…?

“ _What_?”

“Only joking,” Julian says, and he kisses Garak on the mouth.

Julian has never kissed someone cold-blooded before, and the sensation is strange to say the least – Garak’s tongue is surprisingly dry when it touches against his own, and his lips part to allow Julian in before he changes the terms of the argument himself. The hand not wrapped about his kanar glass takes Julian by the front of his uniform, pulling him closer even though the table digs right into his side and it _hurts_ , and Julian gasps into Garak’s mouth as Garak drags one of those sharp teeth over his lower lip, almost drawing blood.

When he lets Julian go and Julian lets him go in kind, Julian is dazed, feeling the flush in his cheeks, and Garak is studying him like a particularly interesting vase in an ancient museum. There is no anger in his face, but nor is there any excitement, and Julian has never been so certain of what _precisely_ Garak is feeling in his life.

“Gul Denor is coming on in age now,” Garak murmurs. “An empire man if ever there was one: he wishes for the return of Terok Nor to Cardassia, and the idea of destroying a traitor at the same time, whilst tying in the Maquis to disguise his tracks… Why, I can see how that might appeal to him.”

“I have to go to Sisko.”

“Now?” Garak says, almost plaintively. Julian pulls away from him, downs the last of his drink, and stumbles on the stairs as he makes his way down to the ground floor of Quark’s. Quark is grinning, and he tries to say something, but Julian is already walking right past him, and he all but sprints through the corridors towards Sisko’s office.

 **♛** **♕** **♛** **♕** **♛** **\--- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS ---** **♛** **♕** **♛** **♕** **♛**

Ops is quiet. At this time of the evening, most of the Beta team are in command, and only Kira is at her usual command, apparently engaged in some complex plan of the Bajoran system. Julian makes his way down the stair grating and onto the main part of the floor, listening to the soft tones of buttons being pressed around him, of sensors releasing their usual quiet pitches and whines, and he steps up to the door of Sisko’s office.

The chime doesn’t go ignored for long: mere moments after it rings, he hears Sisko say, “Enter.”

Julian steps inside, letting the stained-glass doors close behind him with a soft _whoosh_ of sound, and he stands straight with his chin raised, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Sisko glances up from a PADD in his left hand, which he sets lightly down on his desk; in his right hand, loosely held (he has a habit of throwing it up into the air and then catching it again) is a baseball.

“I’ve just been speaking to First Officer Jasek, of the Aronnax,” Julian says, making eye contact with the Commander and not looking away. “I asked him if anything seemed out of place on Ferenginar – I suggested he combine his Vulcan meditation technique with his Cardassian capacity for memory. He heard mention of a man named Gul Denor, who Garak has informed me is a member of the old guard on Cardassia: great damage to the station, the death of a Cardassian traitor, and the added instability of tying in the Maquis…”

“Following your hunch, hm?” Sisko asks, his eyebrows raising. His lips twitch as he asks the question, and Julian knows in front of other commanding officers, having gone behind a security officer’s back to conduct his own investigations, he would likely be chastised. He has been chastised by Benjamin Sisko before, and it has always been deserved, but it doesn’t seem like the commander is going to have at go at him now. If anything, Sisko seems strangely pleased, his lips quirking into a small smile.

“You’re not going to tell me off? Odo would.”

“I’m not Odo,” Sisko points out, not unreasonably, and he lets out a small chuckle, tapping his knuckles against the desk. “I didn’t issue an order for you _not_ to talk to Jasek.”

“Although I did mention security information to non-station personnel,” Julian points out.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Sisko stands, passing the baseball between his hands as he looks out through the station windows, his eyes passing over the blackness and the shine of the distant stars. “Odo won’t admit it, Doctor, but the Maquis felt like too simple an explanation to him, too. The question is how to proceed.”

“Yes, sir,” Julian says, nodding his head, and Sisko glances in his direction.

“At ease, Doctor,” he says, and Julian lets his shoulders loosen, bringing his hands to his sides and letting his arms swing slightly as he teeters on his heels. He thinks of Garak in the Replimat, thinks of Garak’s mouth on his – do Cardassians kiss each other? On the Cardassian homeworld, growing up, did Garak go through the same awkward teenage fumblings Julian did with young women, with young men? “You like Jasek, don’t you?”

“I find him very interesting,” Julian says quietly, taking a few steps forward and slowly sliding down into one of the seats in front of Sisko’s desk. The older man continues to play with the ball, keeping his back to Julian, and Julian adds, “I’m very curious about Cardassians, sir, more and more as time goes on. I just wish there was _literature_ , or media, or something.”

“Don’t you and Garak read books together?” Sisko asks, turning his head to look wryly in Julian’s direction, and his chin tilts slightly. Julian’s lips part. It _is_ true. He does read the Cardassian literature, but there’s so little of it he truly understands, and he knows for a fact that Garak picks out literature he really believes Julian will understand. But Julian knows the books they’ve read, volume by volume: the Cardassian stories don’t reveal nearly as much about Cardassian culture as he wishes they would. He is _certain_ there are metaphors he’s missing – if he could only access more books, select them at his choice from a wider library, look into the lives of their authors, perhaps he could truly learn, but he can’t access anything Garak doesn’t pass onto him.

“It’s not the same as accessing a library,” Julian murmurs. “He can find out whatever he likes about my culture – his is a little more out of reach.” And what does he know about Garak, really? What does he know can spark a reaction out of Garak, what does he know is really important to Cardassians? Openly stating a fact without couching them in riddles? Doing something selfless without an ulterior motive? Wearing mauve? _Well, that’s not Cardassians in general. It’s Garak who doesn’t like mauve. But how am I to know where Cardassian culture ends and Garak begins?_  He allows the silence to span between them for a few moments, and he can see Sisko considering what to say next, and he wonders if he’s said too much, if Sisko thinks he’s as childish and over-excited as he was when he first came to the station. “What’s going to happen with Gul Denor?”

“I’ll pass this onto Odo,” Sisko says. “Leave this with me. Good night, Doctor Bashir.”

“Good night, sir,” Julian says, and he steps out of Ops, making his way into the turbolift. He leans back against the wall, and then he says, “Promenade, first floor.” He spends the journey in the turbolift staring into space, and it seems like the minute or so lasts only seconds: he steps out and makes his way into the second level of Quark’s, looking from the balcony into the bar. Garak is still sat at one of the tables, a PADD in his left hand, a tall glass of kanar beside his right. Julian keeps watching, waiting, waiting… Garak turns his head in Julian’s direction, meeting his gaze full on.

Julian grins. “How do you do that?” he calls down, and when Garak smiles, he feels his heart give a little flutter in his chest. Making his way down the stairs, he walks up to Garak, but steps slightly behind him instead of sitting down across from him: Julian sets both of his hands on Garak’s shoulders, presses down _just_ slightly, feels the way Garak’s entire body goes stiff, looks at his wide eyes in the bar’s mirrors.

“What connotations does this have?” Julian asks, softly. “Tell me frankly. You look positively _scandalized_.”

“Perhaps I am,” Garak murmurs, taking a small sip of his kanar. Julian looks at their reflection in the mirror, at how natural the position seems, Garak with his book and his evening drink, Julian poised behind him with his hands on his shoulders: it seems a little old-fashioned, provincial, even, but he is certain that to the Cardassians, it is so much more. “But it’s rather good to be scandalized once in a while, I feel. Keeps one’s heart healthy.”

“I often think about your heart,” Julian whispers, so quietly he doesn’t think Garak should really be able to make out the words amidst the noise of the dabo, but perhaps Garak reads it on his lips, because his eyes soften, his head tilting to the side. The PADD is gently set down, and Garak’s hand settles on top of Julian’s, slightly cool and dry against Julian’s skin. “I don’t know if that means the same to you as it does to me.”

“In Kardasi,” Garak says, his fingers clasping at Julian’s, “our word for _heart_ is purely anatomical. It is the central organ for pumping blood around the body: that is all. But in Terran tongues, it seems, the _heart_ is a battleground for one’s honour and one’s love, one’s courage, one’s grief. One’s soul, even.” _Cardassians don’t have souls_ , Julian thinks. He’s certain Garak’s told him before that Cardassians don’t put faith in such foolish notions. _Must everything be in my language, based on my understanding?_ Julian wonders, _Will you never expect me to learn something more significant than how to argue, or how to eat my food more slowly?_

“The ancient Greeks believed one’s essence was stored in the chest,” Julian says. “They didn’t yet know how important the brain was: their emotions, thoughts, beliefs – and yes, their soul, their lifeforce – all of it was right here.” Julian’s hand, the one not grasped by Garak’s own, slides forwards, to the very centre of Garak’s rib cage, where the Cardassian heart is found. His hand is just over the spoon there, no doubt evolved to make blows glance away from the plate of the sternum. _I don’t know why I’m always surprised at how coy you are_ , Julian wants to murmur against Garak’s hair, which is inches away from his lips, so close that he can smell the product Garak wears to keep it stiff and shiny, _You’re a species who grew armour from their very own flesh, evolved to protect against any kind of exposure. How could I expect you to be open, exposed, when your very body is built to be the opposite?_

Garak tilts his head back, and his hair brushes Julian’s chin, the back of his head resting lightly against Julian’s chest. Garak’s neck, like this, is easy to examine in the light of the mirror, and Julian can see the softness of the scales there, the lack of heavy scales or deflective ridges.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Julian murmurs, hypnotized by the column of Garak’s pale grey throat in the mirror. “I could slit your throat like this. Baring your neck like that – it doesn’t seem very Cardassian.”

“Scolding me, are you?” Garak asks, and when he chuckles, Julian sees the bounce and change of the muscles in his throat, the way his flesh seems to ripple with it. “In Kardasi, my dear Julian…” Garak trails off, seeming lost in a cloud of thought for a moment before he continues, “The phrase, to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve?”

“Yes,” Julian says. His mouth is dry.

“This piece of flesh, here,” Garak takes the hand Julian has on his chest, raises it higher, until Julian’s fingers are brushing the flesh on the underside of Garak’s chin, at the very top of his throat. The flesh is soft here – not as soft as a Human’s skin, but much more yielding than most of a Cardassian’s flesh – and doesn’t have any scales or tiny ridges, instead a smooth square hidden under the chin. It feels vulnerable. “What would you call this?”

“Your— Your throat, I suppose. Your gullet, just inside – and then there’s the larynx, the trach—”

“Let us not get carried away,” Garak interrupts, his tone stern, but thoughtful. “This patch of flesh is the _vut-Iyok_.” As Garak talks, Julian feels the slight vibrations of his voice through the smooth flesh, feels that here, his flesh is warmer, so close as it is to the surface – he supposes Cardassians aren’t truly cold-blooded, or at the very least, not entirely.

“The _vut-Iyok_ ,” Julian repeats, doing his best to perfectly mimic Garak’s pronunciation. “I don’t suppose I might ask for an etymological history?” Garak laughs, outright, leaning into Julian’s hand as he does so, and Julian is aware of Quark, who has now noticed them, shooting nosy glances in their direction. He sees money exchange hands between him and Morn – a bet, no doubt, but Julian will begin worrying about _that_ later.

“ _Iyok_ means song. Literally, perhaps one could say throat-song, although the _vut_ is actually one’s jaw. Throughout ancient Kardasi literature and philosophy, the _vut-Iyok_ is where the life-force, the base for one’s feeling, is found,” Garak murmurs. “But there is a crucial phrase: to bare one’s _vut-Iyok_ to the sun. It means… To be overly candid. To reveal one’s hand. To show one’s… affections.”

“What is sun in Kardasi?” Julian asks. Garak leans further back, so that he is looking directly up into Julian’s face: they no longer look at each other with the mirror as a buffer, and instead Julian can see the soft blue of Garak’s eyes up close. “I must look silly upside down,” Julian says, because he cannot think of anything else to say. With his fingers pressed to Garak’s _vut-Iyok_ , he can feel the soft pulse of his blood in his veins, just under the skin. Garak seems as if he is waiting for something, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes so _soft_ , their gaze so tender. Perhaps Julian is imagining things, perhaps he is imagining the gentle warmth in Garak’s eyes, the apparent affection there.

“What does it mean?” Garak asks. “If I were to reach out and touch your heart, to feel its pulse beneath my fingers?”

“Probably that I’m disobeying some sort of sacred Cardassian etiquette,” Julian replies. “Letting you touch such a vulnerable part of me – I feel like you’d scold me. For trusting you too much.” Julian thinks of the patch of flesh under his fingers, and he suddenly feels as if he may burst spontaneously into tears. “You often scold me for that.”

“Etiquette isn’t everything,” is all Garak says, and he pulls away from both of Julian’s hands, standing up from the table. He drinks the rest of the syrupy substance in his glass, tucking his PADD into a wide pocket, and suddenly, Garak stands before him, a tailor on his break, polite and deferential. “If you will excuse me, Doctor, I—” Unzipping the outer jacket of his uniform faster than he ever has before, Julian grabs roughly at Garak’s right hand and pulls it to his chest. The coolness of Garak’s fingers as they splay over the left side of Julian’s ribs is palpable even through the fabric of his undershirt and the vest he wears beneath, and he wonders what Garak thinks of the heat, if it is pleasant or merely uncomfortable.

“If you call me _Doctor_ outside the infirmary or a war ground ever again, I will slit your _vut-Iyok_ from ear to ear,” Julian says, rather more harshly than he’d intended and rather more violently, but Garak doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the least. _In fact_ , Julian thinks as they stand together, one of Garak’s hands on his chest and the other on his hip, Julian’s own hands awkwardly splayed on Garak’s upper arms (they must look like the tawdry cover of one of Leeta’s romance novels), _Garak’s smile looks so dazzlingly bright, it could relight dying stars._

“My dear,” Garak murmurs, conspiratorially. “I believe everyone is looking in our direction.”

“One can hardly blame them,” Julian says emphatically, and he pulls the other man into a kiss. Across the room, he hears an excited cry of “ _Dabo_!”, and it feels almost as if the applause is for them.

 **♛** **♕** **♛** **♕** **♛** **\--- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS ---** **♛** **♕** **♛** **♕** **♛**

Jasek stands stonily in the middle of the conference room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Julian looks around the room, at Kira and Jadzia, at Miles, at Sisko. Odo is the only other person standing, and he doesn’t seem intimidated by Jasek in the least.

“I have spoken to a contact on Ferenginar,” Odo says lightly, holding a PADD leisurely against his hip. “And I’ve been informed Gul Denor had indeed come with an envoy to Ferenginar in the past month, with some Cardassian goods being sold in the bazaar; speaking with another contact on Cardassia, it does seem to match the philosophy of others of Denor’s plots in the past. He’s now a Gul, but he was an officer on Terok Nor, only recently promoted before the resistance to the Occupation began to come to a head.”

“What does this mean for us?” Kira asks. “It’s not as if we could prove what Denor did, and even if we could, we have no extradition policy. The Cardassians would probably give him a medal for this!”

“We hardly need to go through official channels to remove him as a threat,” Sisko says in a measured tone. “How well-viewed is Denor on Cardassia?”

“He’s respectable,” Odo says, shrugging lightly. “I’ve heard he has a penchant for gambling, thus his fondness for his time on Ferenginar. The man seems to have self-control in other areas, but it seems he cannot resist a bet.”

“Gambling isn’t well-fostered on Cardassia,” Jasek says quietly. His fingers brush the woven bracelets on his wrist, and he says, “But there are worse things to be than a gambler. He could hardly be pulled down from his position on that charge alone.”

“Where does the money come from?” Julian asks. He has to contribute somehow, and no one else is asking the question. “Cardassians believe in careful budgets, investments in property or resources – they’re not known for their free cash.” A mix of his Ferengi and Cardassian educations: Sisko gives Julian an approving nod. Jasek and Odo each seem rather surprised by the question, and they exchange a glance, both considering the thought.

Julian lets the conversation wash over him, considering the elements of the plan that come together in the room, every one of the Ops team and their temporary guest committing some fragments of concept to the fray, except Julian himself. Denor is next to visit Ferenginar in some weeks, where a Tongo tournament is occurring in the capital. Jadzia, attending with Quark and Odo, will join the tournament and bring Denor into the final, where he will be publicly disgraced – shown to embezzle from Cardassian military funds. Whether he actually _does_ embezzle is regardless: they will either expose it if it is already the case, or Quark will engineer it if it isn’t. These aren’t approved Starfleet methods of dealing with political enemies, but they’re given a lot of leeway out here by the wormhole.

Once the meeting is over, Julian makes his way back to the infirmary, walking beside Jasek.

“Thank you for asking that I be invited to the meeting,” Jasek says. He is wearing a warm-looking tunic of earthy green, a thick, woollen cardigan worn over the top. It’s sehlat wool, Julian guesses, and although the animals themselves seem shaggy and full of teeth, the wool itself looks enviably warm. Julian would bet anything it’s rather itchy though.

“It was nothing, really,” Julian says. “It makes sense for a Cardassian to be present, and you’re personally involved in this.” They pass by a pair of Bajoran women walking arm-in-arm: one of them looks at Julian, whispers something in the ear of her friend, and the two of them titter as they make their way onwards. Julian feels a little heat come to his cheeks, but he doesn’t turn around to look after the Bajorans. He glances sideways at Jasek’s neutral expression, staring forwards with his lips pressed loosely together. “What, no snide commentary?”

“What snide commentary could I possibly have to offer?” Jasek asks, snidely. “Vulcans do not engage in gossip, Doctor Bashir. Nor do Cardassians.”

“But Starfleet nurses do,” Julian says. He thinks of last night, standing in the middle of Quark’s bar with Garak’s mouth on his and Garak’s hand on his chest, of his hand on Garak’s _vut-Iyok_. Garak had walked Julian back to his quarters, the two of them standing nearly shoulder to shoulder as they made their way through the corridors, and then they had finally got to Julian’s door, and it had opened… And Garak had pushed Julian over the threshold, waved a cheery goodbye, and made his way contentedly back to his own quarters. “And last I checked, you still have ears.”

“From what I have heard,” Jasek says, turning his head to meet Julian’s gaze, “You would have been breaking several laws of propriety were you on the Cardassian homeworld.” Julian chuckles, looking down at the ground. “There is a particular difficulty to any cultural exchange, Doctor Bashir. When there are elements of romance, yet another layer of nuance is added.” The infirmary’s doors are within sight, and Jasek smirks slightly as he adds, “My wife and I have broken proprietary rules on both Cardassia and Vulcan. That is the essence of interspecies romance, I think.” Julian cannot help the laugh that bursts out of him, and when he steps into the infirmary, finally, he’s glad to set his mind to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [tinsnip](http://tinsnip.tumblr.com) and [Vyc](https://feltelures.tumblr.com) for their work on the Cardassian conlang! The word _vut-Iyok_ is built using their Cardassian dictionary, and you guys should totally go check out their work! Here's [their Tumblr](https://cardassianlanguage.tumblr.com), and this is [their dictionary.](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2wcj3iYdWofb3Q5WHU1Y3Q3dzA/view?usp=drive_web)


End file.
